


Stephanos First Chapter

by Cythieus



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Demons, F/M, Gen, Heaven, Hell, Mystery, Occult, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 01:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11956599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cythieus/pseuds/Cythieus
Summary: Lissette Metzger is a Nephilim in a world where Angels and Demons walk among humans. She's a Nephilim with a secret. Annemarie, her best friend, is a Succubus struggling with her place in society. They are about to become part of something larger than they ever imagined.





	Stephanos First Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first (and probably) only chapter to my work in progress novel that I'll post on the site. It's been harped on and scrutinized over for a long time now and some details have been changed here and there. All things considered, I'm pretty happy with it, but I wish I could say the same for the whole rest of what I've worked on.

This green, argyle pattern dress with the big bow in the back is my favorite in all of Creation, but it and my knees are being shredded by this threadbare carpet under the desk. I’m squatting in the space between the drawers and the desktop in case my targets glance down the aisle. Every time I move this stupid knot in this stupid bow grinds into my back right above my ass.

            The fact that I’m even out here means my therapist is right about one thing: I have impulse control issues (okay, two things: dresses with bows are best left to little girls). I’d still argue that _impulse control issues_ it seems like I’m one of those girls who finger themselves during school assemblies or eat my own hair or something.

            And at least I’m focused in my impulses. I had enough proof that Mom’s fiancé, Aiden, is cheating before I set foot in this room. Should have left after I caught them in the stairwell. The woman who is obviously-not-my-mother is now chest-down on a table facing the only exit. So, I keep myself curled up and scroll through Twitter and Facebook on my phone. Mostly, I try to remember not to breathe.

            Nephilim don’t _need_ to breathe, but a lifetime spent almost entirely around humans makes you conform to their ways. People notice when you’re not breathing or blinking or when your halo spontaneously pops up. It makes them act awkward.

            Aiden’s got a fistful of her box-dyed blonde hair and he’s all sweaty and red with an expression that suggests he’s pulled a muscle. The point where their bodies connect is blocked by a boxy old computer monitor. The universe is trying to censor itself for me. I snap another photo of them for good measure.

            There’s already an album of pictures of them kissing in his car. And another of them making out in the stairwell. Video would be icing on the cake, but that’s probably too far. When mom found out that Annemarie and I had searched for “penis” on Google a few years back she canceled _HBO_ and grounded me for a week—I don’t know what she would do if I took video of her soon-to-be-ex having sex.

            _How much longer are they going to be at this?_

            I’m rolling my eyes and spot a little cubby near my head. When they burst into the room kissing earlier there hadn’t been time to survey a hiding spot; I dove under the nearest desk. They hadn’t come too far in and chose the desk near the door. They should have had nothing to worry about this late at night.

            I turn over so that my back is against the floor and rest my feet in the cubby. Their rhythm is the same as before by the time I’m a week into my newsfeed, so it’s probably good that I found a more comfortable position.

            Mom’s history is full of boyfriends with secret cell phones and off limits apartments. I thought Aiden was an improvement at first. But he lets his eyes linger on my thighs too long when he sees me in my cheerleading uniform. Or comments about how I have “my mother’s ass” and am “that thin kind of curvy” when no one else is around. He doesn’t scare me, he couldn’t, but some nights when he stays over and I’ve gone to take a shower, I’ve found the bathroom door mysteriously unlocked afterwards.

            Okay, so if Mom knew about Aiden’s peeping problem she’d drop him out of disgust, but she’d coddle me for a few months afterwards. I want him ruined, but I don’t want it cutting into my fun.

            I knew these little late night study sessions were my chance when he started them. Stalking and manipulation are kind of my things. Most of high school has been me practicing for these situations.

            That move where the girl “accidentally runs into a boy” in the hallway for the third time, claiming she’s remembered a funny joke, and he does that little laugh and leans in close and notices the perfume (that she practically thrashed around in a tub of)? That’s all me. I’m sure they call it The Lissette somewhere.

            I’m halfway through a level of Candy Crush when I hear Aiden’s breathing growing shallow. There’s a dull thud as his body slams her against the edge of the desk and the computer monitor is wobbling heavy and out of sync with them. Aiden takes a few sharp, rushed breaths and the movement stops. I hope he doesn’t think that her stark silence is a good sign. I poke my phone out over my shoulder past the corner of the desk to get another look at them with the front-facing camera; the woman has her back to me and is slipping her underwear on under her dress.

            “I can’t keep coming down here to see you,” she says. “Can we just try?”

            Aiden holds his hand up to silence her. “Kara has the key.” His words come out in exasperated puffs as he wipes his hands on a stack of papers on the desk.

            “I see.”

            “She’s just suspicious. Bad history with men.”

            _And yet you still humped this girl in the lab where you both work_.

            There’s several more minutes of them half whispering before he gives her a peck on the forehead (she just had his cock in her mouth a few minutes ago—you’d think he’d show a little more gratitude) and they’re about to part ways, but as he goes to walk off she grabs his wrist. “There’s just one more favor I kind of need.”

            “What is it?” he asks pulling his arm out of her grasp.

            “I loaned my mom the last of my money to pay the rent and I made it down here tonight on fumes. Can I get, like, ten dollars for the drive back?”

            Aiden rummages through his pockets to find his wallet. He pulls a wrinkly twenty out from between the folds. “It’s all I have.” he folds the bill until it’s a long strip and offers it to her. When she reaches for it he draws back. “Not like that.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

            Her eyes drop and she doesn’t move for a moment, but then she braces herself against the nearby desk and leans in to take the money in her mouth. For a moment, I think she might see me. She looks up, but not into his eyes, and spits the money into her own hand to say, “Thank you.”

            His hand hitting the press-bar on the door is loud enough that it drowns out anything they might be saying as they leave, but I can tell they’re not talking. I count to forty-five and decide to wait a bit longer to be safe. The shaft of my boot drags against the carpet as I crawl out of hiding, it’s going to take a bit for circulation to return to my leg.

            My Jetta is parked in the staff lot a few blocks from the school; Aiden knows my car too well to risk being nearby. Annemarie stands with her butt resting against the passenger side window and head down over her iPhone. She glances at me and then down at her phone.

            Dad taught me was that it’s sloppy to be out alone or, at least, out without someone knowing where you’re going. Annemarie is my default for those can’t-tell-mom-outings.

            Annemarie looks like a pinup that someone painted on the side of an old plane or something: dark curls held up by a scarf, pale skin, and lipstick that seems to be glowing red—only with horns and a tail.

            “I was in there longer than ten minutes and you didn’t text me,” I say.

            “Just wanted to finish this chapter.” She holds out her phone even though there’s no way I can read it at this distance. “Besides, someone might have heard your phone go off.”

            “Why would I tell you to text me and leave it turned up?” It only happened the one time.

            Annemarie shrugs, locks her phone, and slips it into the top of her dress. She’s all dresses, skirts, blouses, and tights. She hasn’t worn anything with a decent sized fucking pocket since _Pokémon_ cards were a thing.

            I climb into the car as she slides in on the passenger side. The ram-like horns spiraling out of her head just above the ears catch the Mardi Gras bead necklaces dangling from my rear-view mirror. Her horns find a way to get caught on everything. Those cheap bead curtains that people hang in doorways are the bane of her existence. It’s seriously shocking how often she runs across them.

            Annemarie rides with me a lot; I should really take these beads down.

            “Keep wiggling, you’re just going to snap the string and get beads all over the place.”

            She lurches forward to put some slack on the necklaces. “They’re really on there this time,” Annemarie whines.

            I start guiding the strands around the winding path her horns take. “You should wear one of those big upside-down thingies they put on dogs.”

            “It’d just make me clumsier.” Annemarie draws her shoulders up close to her neck and gives me this flat, dopey smile.

            “There.” I slip the last strands of beads off. “So, I was totally right about Aiden and you were wrong.”

            “I wasn’t _wrong_. I’m trying to keep you from stalking people,” she says.

            “Well, Aiden is cheating on Mom with a student.” I flick through the pictures on my phone in a slow slide-show.

            “How are these so clear?” Annemarie flicks her way to the left through a few more photos.

            “Why do you think I told you to stay here? Kind of hard to hide with a six-foot-tall succubus in tow.”

            “Go ahead and get your lanky Amazon jokes out of the way.” She looks out the window past the massive tree, like she’s looking at something I can’t see. “She has to see him everyday after all this?” she says motioning direction of the Science building.

            Mom’s one of the few doctorates of Eclispademonology in the country--that’s the study of extinct demons. She’s half of why I know so much; her old grimoires and tomes were my bedtime stories and summer reading. It wasn’t really encouraged, but she didn’t stop me.

            “I was against them getting engaged,” I yank the gear shift back until it locks into reverse. “I’ll just be glad to be done with that.”

Annemarie is silent. Her tight-lipped expression is there and gone, there and gone again as we pass under the freeway lights. I’m not going to pry to see what’s on her mind, though. 

            As I take the exit for her road there’s a tire squeal and the sound of a thundering engine. It’s getting close fast. I glance back in time to see a scooter weaving between two cars. The rider is dressed in dark, puffy clothes and has a guitar case strapped to his back.

            Annemarie lets out a yelp and I slam on the brakes as the rider’s shoulder snaps the passenger side mirror clean off the car. The person looks back and I catch _her_ eyes through the visor before she powers down the ramp.

            “What the hell?” I pull myself forward in the seat and press the hazard light switch. When I glance over at Annemarie her eyes are glowing red. The smell hits me a split second after the woozy feeling. “Shit...did you just crop-dust me with pheromones?” Make your target all swoony and agreeable, it’s the go-to succubus fear reaction.

            “Sorry.” Her hand is pressed to her chest and her eyes slowly fade back to brown.

            I open the door and check for oncoming traffic before getting out. The mirror is laying near the back-passenger side tire and the glass is completely broken out of it.

            “You’re going to need to cover the hole, I think it’s supposed to rain tonight.” Annemarie has her window down and she’s poking her hand into the hole and plucking at the exposed wires.

            I toss what’s left of the mirror on the back seat. “No, it’s not.”

            “Where’s the moon?” she asks.

            “New moon. It’s not visible right now.” I point to the glowing multicolored gash in the sky behind us. “The Wound’s out, see? No clouds.” The Wound’s been there since the Beginning. The final remnant of my father’s lost war.

            I’m getting a little ahead of myself. My parents are a former artsy Bohemian-type turned professor and Lucifer. Morningstar Lucifer. I wasn’t kidding when I said she had a type. Nurture over nature—I turned out fine. But I’ll be anything but once mom sees I got into a hit and run accident.

 

* * *

 

            Annemarie makes me drop her off at the corner of the sagging chain-link fence that encloses her yard, mumbling some excuse about the gate being broken around front. This time of night, her dad is probably passed out in the front porch rocking chair. No point risking the Jetta waking him. I wait until she slips through the side door and flips the light behind the house on before I pull away.

            I get a text from Mom a few minutes later. **Running late. Still at the dig site. Can you pick up dinner?**

           I send my response while sitting at a stop sign. The dig site’s at _Chalk Ridge Falls Park_ , almost to Belton. That’s nearly an hour from Austin--so an hour and fifteen minutes to kill. And I’m only ten minutes from home. Actually, having to see Aiden cheat took the fun out of following him. Having to see what the news will do to Mom will be less fun. I might as well find someone to help me salvage the night.

            I pull out my phone and scroll through the contacts. There’s a boy with a work-study scholarship at this Catholic school. In the summer, when I was driving Annemarie home from cheer practice, we’d pass him walking down the side of the street, his shirt soaked through with sweat from working around the school so that you could see the little indention that ran down the center of his chest. Sometimes he would let us give him a lift.

            The Bluetooth in my car interrupts the radio when I press send. He answers mid-ring.

            “Hello?” his voice is confused and distracted. I’ve caught him in the middle of something.

            “Hey. Do you know who this is?” His name is listed as Nick in my phone, but I have a habit of giving people names I wish they had.

            Lissette?”

            “Yeah, listen, I’m doing this thing for school and I need to get the opinion of someone who does work at the school. Like, I need to know how you feel about it--can I interview you?”

            “Sure. Ask away.”

            “I’d rather do this in person. Need the body language and stuff to break up the quotes some. But hey, it’s no problem if you’d rather do it over the phone, I’m kind of in a rush--”

            “No. Sure, Lissette. Come over.”

            “See you in a bit.” I hang up.

            I take a left onto his street. The driveway is mud and I’m the only car. No parents, guess I lucked out. The gear shifter makes the logistics of doing anything remotely adventurous in my car hard and my backseat is piled high with heels, dresses, and empty slushy cups from _Sonic._

            And my broken mirror.

            He’s at the door in a white t-shirt that still holds creases from being folded. His dark hair is always wet and slicked down to his forehead. I’ve never seen it dry.

            My blonde hair is in that Zen state of messiness where it looks like I don’t care, but not like I’ve given up. I step out of the car and crawl across my seat to rummage through the back for a random notebook.

            “Sorry to bother you.”

            “It’s okay.” he makes his way off the porch and halfway to my car.

            “You’re here alone?”

            He nods. “Dad works nights and my sister has the car.” No mention of a mom; she left or died. I can’t remember.

            He falls in step with me as I reach him and holds the door for me. “Well, I won’t keep you for too long.”

            “It’s okay. Really. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so no practice.” The screen door closes behind me and I stop next to a cracked leather couch that’s draped with one of those decorative yarn blankets. The kitchen kind of just begins out of nowhere to my left and there’s a hall past that. The bedrooms, I figure. “Do you want something to drink?”

            “Water, please.” I touch his arm with the tips of my fingers. “Thanks.”

            I watch him get the glass out of the corner of my eye as I sidle toward the hallway with the notebook clutched to my chest. The door at the end of the hall is open and a child-sized basketball jersey is tacked to the wall inside.

            “Is that your room?” I ask when he hands me the water.

            “Yeah.”

            “You been playing football a while then?”

            “Basketball, actually,” he chuckles.

            I take a big drink. He’s seen me riding around in a cheerleading outfit and he doesn’t think I know the difference. So, he’s either not bright or thinks I’m not. “Oh, right. Can I see? Your room, I mean. It might be best if we do the interview where you’re most comfortable anyway…”

            “Sure. I mean, yeah. That’s fine.

            His room is all posters and trophies and that thick smell of boys sweat mixed with body spray. There’s an Evangelion poster to my right; racist portrayal of Angels, but at least his taste in anime isn’t shitty.

            I catch him staring at my eyes. Most Nephs have odd eye colors: purple or red or unnatural blue. Mine are gold. I got used to spotting people trying to look while trying to look like they’re not.

            How—how do you want to start?” he asks.

            Above his unkempt bed, there’s a black and white poster of two girls lying on their sides, kissing, with artfully messy sheets around them—I’ve seen this poster in probably a dozen other similar rooms. I walk over and sit on the corner of the bed, placing the notebook in my lap. It must be nine fifty; I don’t want to waste more time than I have to.

            “Look, I’m going to be straight with you--this notebook is full of drawings of horses,” I open it to show him colored pencil sketches of two horses running through a scribbled reference triangle from my Pre-Cal homework. “There’s no interview or article. I just wanted to have sex, but I don’t have any condoms and, from the look of this room, neither do you. We can make out. I’ll even slide the top of my dress down, but the bra stays on and your dick stays behind at least two layers of cloth, okay?”

            “What?” He tilts his head to the side like a confused puppy.

            “It’s a yes or no question, whatever-your-name-is. I’ve got to be home in an hour and ten minutes.” I down the last of my water.

            “Okay?”

            “Okay as in yes or…”

            “Yes,” he closes the gap between us and kisses me like he’s worried I might slap him or pull away. But before long we’re in full make-out mode and I’m pull him back onto the bed.

            His tongue tastes like Dr. Pepper and cigarettes. He puts a knee between my legs and I push my forehead to his to keep our lips apart. “Let me get these straps down,” I say. The heater kicks on and almost drowns out the sound of my voice.

            The top part of my dress falls until it hangs off my thin leather belt. What’s-his-name rests a hand on my shoulder and works the fingers of the other one up into my hair. Either he’s shy or he’s taking it slow. It’s okay; we’ve got an hour.

            Then again, I want to stop by _Big Fat Greek Gyros_ on the way home.

            I grab him at the waist with a burst of strength that’s part cheerleading muscle, part Neph and push him back onto the mattress and straddle him. His fingers play at the skin almost hidden by my knee-high boots (these damn vintage things have too many buckles for me to bother taking them off; besides, I don’t hear him complaining).

            “Sorry if that was rough,” I tell him before kissing his neck.

            “I kind of like it.”

            His hands are on my waist, but he’s not aggressive. We stay like this for I don’t even know how long; trading kisses back and forth. I pin his hands to the wall right below the poster lesbians and we stay pressed together until my back hurts from keeping my body twisted up. I sit up straight and push my hair out of the way.

            He starts kissing my stomach and his hands trail up the sides of my body until he’s tugging at my bra strap. I catch his hands and slam them down to his sides bring my face down to his. “Don’t get any ideas.” I bite his shoulder playfully, but keep enough force on his hands that he can’t move.

            _Brrrzt. Brrrzt. Brrrzt._

            What’s-his-name tenses up. “What’s that?”

            “I have to go.” I sit up and grab my phone from the cup of my bra to silence the alarm.

            “Go? Wait, what just happened?” he asks glancing away.

            I shrug as I slip my dress straps back onto my shoulders. “I was bored and needed to take my mind off telling my off telling my mom what I did.”

            “You’re going to tell her about us?” There’s shock in his voice.

            “No, her fiancé’s cheating on her--it’s just--it’s complicated.” I climb off him. “I’ve gotta go. Thanks, Nick.” I scoop up my notebook before I leave the room.

            “It’s Alex.”

            “Right. Alex. Tell your dad to get a Brita filter; the water tastes like metal.”

            I’m out the door, texting Mom as it shuts behind me. I don’t think Alex even moved from the bed.

            **Are Gyros for dinner fine?**

            Her reply comes a few seconds later. **Sure.**

            Trying to soften the blow of infidelity with spun meat from a food truck. This will go over well.

 

* * *

 

            Mom is sitting cross-legged on the bar stool, horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. She turns to greet me when I come through the door, clutching my phone and two gyros. There’s a bottle of beer or wine cooler next to her. The bottle is green, but she always picks the labels off.

            “Guess who's got two gyros and is ten minutes late?” She narrows her eyes at me. I sit the food down next to her. “What? There was a line.”

            “It’s okay.” She smiles as she grabs the wrap up and pulls at the foil with her fingernails. Mom’s hair is a reverse ombre white-blonde and dark brown. She’s got freckles and full lips that are always the color of a candied apple. It’s odd to say, since Dad is probably one of the most attractive creatures in Creation, but I wish I had taken after my mom more.

            “I told them to take it easy on the onions this time.”

            “Good.” Mom takes a deep breath. “I thought I was going to have to bathe my tongue in tomato sauce to get rid of the smell.” She stacks the papers she was grading off to the side and lets out a sigh. “I don’t get it. The girl Aiden is tutoring bombed one of his testes.” Mom’s content to sit at home and do his work for him. Now’s as good a time as any to tell her, I guess.

            “Mom, we need to talk.”

            “About?” she pauses with the gyro lifted to her mouth, but not quite in attack range. The grease is threatening to drip onto her _Gin Blossoms_ t-shirt. I freeze.

            “My curfew...couldn’t we go a little later? Just a little, I mean ten forty-five or eleven, even?” I ask.

            “Maybe,” she says narrowing her dark eyes at me. “I’ll think about that, but what are you really wanting to talk about?”

            My tone was a little too serious for this to be about the not-so-heated topic of my curfew. “I kind of had a teeny-tiny accident tonight.”

            Her eyes are wide and she’s only not speaking because her mouth is full of food.

            “This girl rode by on a scooter and clipped the mirror off the Jetta,” I say.

            “Why didn’t you call? We have to make an insurance claim on these things.”

            I sigh. “I brought the mirror home and we can still call.”

            “Those things cost a lot, Lissette. The next time Lucifer’s up here you’re going to just have to ask him real nicely to hand-wave it back on.” The smile creeps across her face as she lifts the gyro to her mouth.

            “Ugh, you’re making a mess.” I wrap a stack of napkins under the gyro and clutch it there until she takes hold if it.

            Telling her about Aiden would be a disaster. I need to run damage control. Why make a Hiroshima out of what could be a Pearl Harbor or, better yet, a Bay of Pigs--something largely embarrassing for all involved that no one remembers unless they were there or they’re too lazy to turn off _The History Channel_.

            “Are you excited about the dig Monday?” she asks.

            I nod. “I picked up this tan explorer-style outfit and some boots for the occasion.”

            “Just don’t forget your sunscreen. It’s cool out, but you could still burn.”

            No I can’t. Nephilim don’t sunburn. But I don’t argue the point.

            “I want you to do me a favor: ride with Aiden up to the site?”

            “I thought we were riding with you?”

            Mom shakes her head. “Change of plans. I have to leave at five and you’re not going to want to be up or ready that early. Plus, I just want you to spend time with Aiden. It’s three months until the wedding and it feels like you hardly know him.”

            Sad fact is I know him better than her. My mom is swooning like it’s her first crush. She clutches her gyro and sways slightly side to side, as if unable to stop herself and smiles one of those toothy, too-wide-no-holds-barred smiles. Someone hold my hair while I vomit.

            “Is it okay if Annemarie rides with us?” It has to be. I need a buffer. A witness.

            Mom nods. “I’m sure Aiden won’t mind.”

            I don’t want to ride in the BMW that I just watched this douchebag feel a girl up in last night. Really, I’d prefer not to be anywhere that Aiden has the luxury of seeing me, but I’ve been looking forward to this dig and Aiden getting what’s coming to him. So I force a smile and hope that Mom doesn’t notice. “Okay.”

 


End file.
